Year of Hell
by Josiah Tulkinhorn
Summary: After a horrific murder hits London, and another in Russia is swiftly follows, Clarice Starling is once agian drawn into a terrifying game with Hannibal Lecter. How will she survive this Year of Hell?
1. 1st January

_**Disclaimer: **Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, and FBI Director Tunberry, are copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story plus original characters belong to me._

_**Author's Note: **This was an idea I came up with, and if I can pull it off, with some luck, it could take a while. Follows from the film's canon, with elements from the novel. Contains gory scenes._

**Year of Hell**

**by Josiah Tulkinhorn**

Chapter One: 1st January

London. A few seconds past midnight.

Dr Hannibal Lecter slid through the crowds gathered along the Thames, and winced slightly as the people around him roared at the coming of the New Year. Another year gone, and fireworks exploded in bursts of colour and sound.

He knew that the year to come would present it's fair share of difficulties - but more so than any year before. It was a test, one he had set. The victim? A lamb to the slaughter.

Conflicting emotions surged in his brain. There was love in there, along with a love of fear. As he kept moving, he breathed in the atmosphere of excitement, almost as enjoyable, but not quite. Not quite.

He looked at his watch. The police would discover the body within a few hours…he had to leave the country as soon as possible.

Getting out of the crowds, and sticking to the shadows he headed to Heathrow Airport, calling a Taxi at Trafalgar Square.

He had warned Clarice. He had to come out of his 'hibernation'. But that had been years ago, and he had been active for some time. Where to go?

On the off-chance the police tracked him, he didn't want to be found near his home.

So a few days in Russia might do the trick.

--

Sitting in the plane, he drunk deeply from the complimentary (awful) excuse for wine, and gazed out of the window at the dark skies.

"Some of our stars are the same," he whispered, "so Happy New Year, Clarice."

The old man sitting next to Hannibal looked at him oddly, then turned around and started to snore.

Hannibal wondered when Clarice would receive the card he sent her.

As he settled down in his seat, the plane continued towards it's destination.

--

London. Seven a.m.

Blue lights flashed madly, and sirens screamed as police cars sped to a district in Islington. A few neighbours had complained about a strange, metallic smell coming from an empty apartment on the top floor. Armed officers burst through the door, firearms outstretched, bullets chambered.

The lead officer, Sergeant Matt Payne, gave the nod, and kicked the door down. Splinters flew as the police spilled into the first room. They immediately divided into three teams, to cover the three doors.

"Clear!" came one yell, to inform the others about the bathroom.

"Clear!" the bedroom was safe as well.

"Man down! Repeat, man down! No hostiles." The officer first in fell out briefly, sucking in the stale air from the other room. Although the metallic smell was still evident, it wasn't as pungent.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," he muttered, then turning to Sergeant Payne, "it's bad sir. We need forensics."

Payne frowned, and gave the man a look as if to say, 'no need to state the obvious.' He went into the room, and looked around. Catching site of the body he closed his eyes, his brain not quite recognising what was on the floor below him. He took a deep breath, which naturally only made it worse, bile suddenly rising in his throat. He swallowed it down and opened his eyes.

The corpse, male, lay with his throat slashed open, a large pool of blood accumulating around his head. However, the worst wound was on the chest - there seemed to be some sort of hole, and looking into it, the lead officer could see the heart had been removed. Due to the extreme lack of blood, the wound was post-mortem. A blood-stained knife was lying next to the body.

"This is not good," muttered Payne, "oh this is so not good."

--

Moscow, midday (Greenwich Mean Time).

Kate Warner, an American tourist, flicked her shoulder-length brown hair, brushing out the snow, and shivered in her thick woollen coat. Russia was so beautiful in the snow, but it was so cold!

"Excuse me, but are you okay?" the voice came from behind her. She turned, and saw a man, small, but with a strange presence, and startling maroon eyes.

"Yes," said Kate, smiling. The man responded in kind. Kate continued: "I'm okay. Just cold. But its worth it…it's so lovely here."

"Yes," said the man, "yes it is lovely. It has been so long. And yet it's just a plane-ride away."

"Your accent?" asked Kate, "What is it? English?"

"No," said the man, "I'm from Europe, originally, but I have travelled a lot. I seem to do an awful lot of travelling," Kate smiled, "however, I haven't introduced myself. Henry Lowell."

"Kate Warner," she took his outstretched hand, "a pleasure to meet you. Look…I'm sorry to sound presumptuous; have you eaten?" The man shook his head, "Well, I was just about to grab a bite. Would you care to join me?"

"Yes," said the man, "why not?"

--

London, the crime scene. Two p.m.

"Sir?"

Sergeant Payne turned to the forensic scientist, "Yes, what?"

"We've identified the remains in the kettle. Heart, we're presuming human, but we're still waiting for the DNA results. But…there's only part of the heart, about three quarters are missing."

"He wants us to know. What he might have done."

"Sir?"

"Just thinking out loud," said Payne, "what else?"

"We've got a thumbprint, on the knife, a complete one. The rest of the room is clean."

"Have you sent it to HQ?"

"Yes…sir. This sort of murder. I've been in the force three years, and seen all sorts of weird stuff. Really weird. Never as bad as this. Do you think…well what if the killer has fled?"

"You think we should put out an alert?"

"Yeah. We can't touch airports…no witnesses, no description. Send it to Interpol. We'll see what they can turn up."

--

Interpol, regional headquarters, London. Seven p.m.

Interpol's DNA database was the largest in the world, the cumulative effect of all other police force's databases. The analyst sighed, and pushed his chair back from his desk, raised his glassed and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, staring at a computer screen for the last three hours. The computer was going into overtime, flitting from face to face, hundreds every minute.

The analyst looked up suddenly, as bleeping reached his ears.

"Oh. Hell," he muttered.

**ONE MATCH FOUND**

**FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION; UNITED STATES OF AMERICA**

**TEN MOST WANTED**

**DR. HANNIBAL LECTER**

The Analyst picked up the phone, fumbled and dropped it. Swearing, he picked it up, and dialled the internal number for his supervisor.

"Yeah?"

"Sir?" said the Analyst, "We have a problem. That murder in London? Thumbprint's a match. Doctor Hannibal Lecter.

--

Office of the Director of the FBI; Washington D.C. Ten minutes later. (Five p.m. Washington Local Time)

FBI Director Tunberry quickly sipped his scolding coffee, relishing it's bitter taste, reviewing budget reports for the Behavioural Science Unit, when his phone rung.

Picking it up, he responded: "Tunberry."

"Director, it's the London Police Commissioner. He say's its urgent."

"Put him through," said Tunberry. There was a series of rapid clicks and beeps.

"Director, thank you for taking the time to talk."

"What is it Commissioner?"

"Sir, this morning, there was a particularly brutal murder in London. Regional Interpol office just identified the suspected perpetrator. Doctor Hannibal Lecter."

Tunberry sat up: "Has this been confirmed?"

"Less than ten minutes ago."

"Do you want to hand this over to us?"

"We believe Lecter has left the country, we are going to have to co-work with other law-enforcement agencies. We want to take point…but we need help."

"Alright," said Tunberry, "I'm on it."

--

Russia, a few moments to midnight. (Russia Local Time).

Kate Warner laughed softly, and gently, leaning on the man's shoulder.

"It's been a lovely day," she smiled, slurring her words ever so slightly.

"Yes," replied the man, "I enjoyed it as well."

"Here I am," Kate said, "this is my room. Would…would you like to come in. Have a drink?"

"Don't you think you've had enough?" the man's voice was soft.

Kate's eyes blurred, and the focused - sharper than before: "Hey," she said, "you look really familiar. Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Weren't you on the news? About half a year back." Her eyes widened in shock.

Hannibal Lecter's face grew grim. After all, it had been such a nice afternoon.

**To Be Continued**

_**Note:** My great-grandma once stated that she had received flowers via Interpol - she actually meant Interflora! Anyway, next chapter: The News, Clarice is recruited, and the chase begins. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please review._

_**Mr J Tulkinhorn.**_


	2. 2nd January

_**Disclaimer: **Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling, and FBI Director Tunberry, are copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story plus original characters belong to me._

_**Author's Note: **At the rate I'm writing, this story could take quite a while; but I'll try and keep it as consistent as possible._

**Year of Hell**

**by Josiah Tulkinhorn**

Chapter Two: 2nd January

Washington, D.C. A few minutes past midnight.

Clarice Starling wakes suddenly, the phone beside her bed blaring. Blearily, she picked it up, and mumbled: "Starling."

"Clarice? Did I wake you?"

"Director Tunberry. What can I do for you sir?"

"I can call back of this is a bad time."

"No. I'm awake now. 'Bout ten minutes sleep. What can I do for you?"

"There's been a murder. In London. I thought you might want to know. It's Lecter."

"What? When did this happen."

"The body was found yesterday; murder took place the thirty-first. Interpol matched fingerprints a few hours ago, I was told soon after. We had to get some protocol in place, but I thought you'd want to know."

"Thankyou sir. What's the operating procedure?"

"This is a Metropolitan Police operation, with assistance from the FBI. Clarice…I know you went through a hell of a lot, what with Krendler's murder, but I want you running point. That is, if you want it."

"Of course, sir. Do you want me to come in now?"

"No. Get some sleep. When you come in, report to Behavioural Science. We'll have the basement cleared for you."

"Yes, sir."

"Clarice. This is going to be a global search. Nightmarishly difficult."

"I'll see you tomorrow sir."

"Goodnight, Clarice."

The phone went dead, and Clarice dropped it onto the receiver.

London. Why had Dr Lecter gone there?

To come out of retirement? Clarice knew one thing however. The nightmare was starting again.

--

EXCERPT FROM BBC NEWS - MORNING BROADCAST

"_Police, today, have discovered a body in an East-London apartment. It is believed that it was Raymond Eddings, thirty-four, a plumber, working out of the east-end. Police have kept most details secret, but apparent links have been made with notorious serial-killer: Hannibal Lecter. It is unclear what Dr Lecter, last seen in America after the murders of wealthy invalid Mason Verger, Paul Krendler of the Justice Department, and numerous other individuals; role is in all of this. It is believed that Lecter has fled the country, and police agencies from around the world, are currently being drafted into the operation.'_

--

Moscow, Ten a.m. local time.

Hannibal looked into the bathroom, checking one last time Kate Warner's body, which was laying, fully clothed, in the hotel's bath.

He had made her murder painless - it was the least he could do. He hadn't wanted to do it, but couldn't afford to be discovered this early. After wiping the hotel room down, he had slept peacefully in a chair, waiting for the sun to rise.

As an added precaution, he wiped the room again at nine, which took around an hour. He had just finished, and decided that discretion would be the better part of valour - if such an act could even be considered valour - and he had better leave the country.

He was already jet-lagged, but it wasn't as if he had much choice.

Gathering himself together, he placed his ear to the door, making sure there were no footsteps.

After hearing nothing but silence, he emerged from the room, and carefully made his way out into the sunshine and snow.

--

Office of the Director of the FBI; Washington D.C. Three p.m.

"Come in Clarice," said Tunberry, "I'm sorry I haven't been able to talk to you earlier, it's been a rough few hours. I haven't been off the phone in hours."

"Dr Lecter appears, and the world goes crazy."

"Yes, he does have that effect on people."

"Like I said this morning, I want you running point. There's a chance that Lecter might make contact with you, so I want you to have a guard with you. It's no guarantee, but you never know."

"Fine," said Clarice, "do we know where he went?"

"Metropolitan Police are still checking all airports, and records. No luck yet."

"Luck. We're going to need an awful lot of that."

--

Moscow. Seven p.m. local time.

A maid discovered Kate Warner's body at two (Moscow local time), and the Police were immediately called. After discovering her identity, the American Embassy was contacted, and her relatives in New York were informed within five hours.

It wouldn't be until tomorrow, until some connections were made.

By then, Hannibal Lecter was long gone.

**To Be Continued**


	3. 3rd January

_**Disclaimer: **Clarice Starling, Ardelia Mapp, and FBI Director Tunberry, are copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story plus original characters belong to me._

_**Author's Note: **I must apologise for the lateness of this chapter, but it is extremely difficult to write consistently. I shall revolve to try however. I have no idea whether the FBI holds field offices around the world, (probably not), so please accept the usage here as dramatic license._

**Year of Hell**

**by Josiah Tulkinhorn**

Chapter Three: 3rd January

J. Edgar Hoover Building; Washington, D.C. Nine a.m.

Clarice Starling made sure the plastic goggles were firmly secured in front of her eyes, and carefully covered her ears with protectors.

Checking her pistol was loaded, she slid a round into the chamber, and thumbed the safety off. Breathing deeply, she raised the pistol at arm's length, and fired the clip at the target.

When the smoke had blown away, she hit the button, and the paper target began to shoot towards her.

"Not bad," said a voice behind her. Clarice swivelled. "Hi," he said, offering a hand, "Agent Tony Schulze."

Clarice looked at the ragged hole in the 'skull' of the target, and said; "Thanks. Now, how can I help you Agent Schulze?"

"I've been assigned to assist you. On Behavioural Science."

"For any particular reason?"

"None that they gave me. I go where I'm told."

"When did you graduate from the Academy?"

"How could you? No, never mind. I graduated a few months ago."

"Doctor Lecter once was insulted that Jack Crawford sent me, whom he called a 'trainee'. Do you think you're up to it?"

Schulze straightened: "Of course I am."

"No," said Clarice, "don't give me the company line. Can you really do this?"

"Yes," said Schulze, "I can do this."

"Good," said Clarice simply, "then come with me."

--

FBI international field office; Paris. Twelve p.m. (local time)

Ardelia Mapp's office was small, cramped; and when the wind was in the east, occasionally smelled of fish.

Luckily, there was no fishy smell, as she wolfed down a salad, while staring at the brown office walls. Rain pounded against the walls, and she could barely see anything out the small window but grey.

Sweeping some leaves into her mouth, she reached out and grabbed a file, that was on top of a precarious stack. However, her outstretched arm knocked over a well-thumbed novel, to the floor.

She cursed violently, and drew her arm back. Her rotation would only end in another six months, and this dreary bureaucratic nonsense. Well, someone had to do it, but she sure wished that it wasn't her. She missed Clarice, her truest friend. Why had she been sent here? Was it a punishment? But for what?

A noise came from behind her. Swivelling, she reached out, and picked up the ringing phone.

"Special Agent Mapp."

"_Agent Mapp. It's Director Tunberry."_

"Director! To what do I owe the honour?"

"_No need to be sarky. I have multiple transfer requests on my desk. We wanted to move you Ardelia, but we didn't have any opportunities. We needed someone good in charge of the office."_

"Yes sir, but it's bureaucracy. Not exactly what I signed up for."

"_I understand that. Have you been following the news?"_

"I presume you're referring to this supposed London murder. The one with Dr Lecter."

"_Of course. What you may not know is that there has been another murder. The press hasn't cottoned on yet, thank God. Body was discovered in Russia this morning. The room was wiped clean, but we found a little DNA. That's in analysis now. Girl's name was Kate Warner, an American tourist. We think it was Lecter who killed her. I'll get to the point Ardelia. I've put Clarice Starling in charge on this end, and she wants you running point abroad. I need you to get on a plane to Russia."_

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir. And please thank Clarice. It's been a while since we last spoke."

"_Well you'll speak to her soon enough. You have a ticket waiting at De Gaulle Airport, plane leaves in six hours."_

Tunberry hung the phone up, and Ardelia smiled. She felt horrible, that this was at the cost of two lives already. But it was her chance to do something, to do what she was meant to.

Grabbing the remains of her salad, and a few belongings, she rushed out to tell her co-workers where she was going.

She had quite a bit of packing to do.

**To Be Continued**

**Note:** Very much a talkie chapter, next the beginnings of the investigation will be outlined. Hope you enjoyed it, and reviews are very much appreciated.

_**Mr J Tulkinhorn.**_


	4. 4th January

_**Disclaimer: **Clarice Starling and Ardelia Mapp, are copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story plus original characters belong to me._

_**Author's Note: **Once again, apologies for the procrastination - I can never write to schedule. So here are two chapters…_

**Year of Hell**

**by Josiah Tulkinhorn**

Chapter Four: 4th January

New Scotland Yard; London. Ten a.m.

Sergeant Matt Payne hadn't moved for three hours, to the general irritation of the scientists in the crime lab, who were forced to move around him - but quite frankly Payne didn't care. It was troubling him terribly.

The scientists couldn't find the remains of the heart, but the DNA found in the apartment pointed to something else. Dr Hannibal Lecter - one of the world's most notorious cannibals.

The other part will have been eaten.

Payne couldn't understand it; he felt queasy at the very thought of it. It would have been cooked? Or did Dr Lecter prefer heart tartar?

This had once been a living, beating organ. The life pump of a human being, shunting blood throughout the body. Now it was reduced to this: remains on a plate - like the remains of a cheap steak. Was this what humans meant to Lecter? Just food?

The cold, sterile white refracted off him, and his steely grey eyes were full of pain. He knew he should keep a layer of detachment, and just focus on finding the killer, but the fact that Lecter had almost certainly fled the country, meant that Payne had little useful to do.

Bitterly shaking his head, he opened a laptop on the sterile work surface, pushing the heart to one side, and began to type yet another report. Cannibalism and paperwork. Just another day at the office.

Sort of.

--

Moscow. Three thirty p.m. (local time).

"You know, girl, that I'm indebted to you?"

"Why? You're a brilliant agent. You only got relegated to France because you pissed off to many people, after how the Bureau treated me. It should have been me that had gone."

"Yeah, but I only have another six months to go. So, what's happening?"

"Not a lot," said Clarice, "we've got several organisations trawling the globe, but we're not going to catch Lecter. He's too good at hiding. So what can we do?"

"Well, I'm starting to look around here. I've got some interviews lined up, and they're going to show me the forensics later today. The police are being really friendly…well, when they can understand me. They could be insulting me behind my back."

"Quite possible, knowing you."

"Well, thank you, Special Agent Starling. That gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside, knowing that the Moscow Police are…oh, I give up. So what's with the new recruit?"

"Schulze? He seems okay. Bit eager to please, but weren't we all back at the Academy."

"Too true," said Ardelia, and Clarice continued:

"He's got some good grounding though. Should be useful with forensics, but he doesn't know psychology worth a damn."

"Nobody's perfect. Do you think he'll be able to handle what's coming?"

"No," said Clarice, "quite frankly I don't. So we'll just have to see."

"Yeah," said Ardelia, "look. Don't risk your life, on account of his word. Just be careful, girl. Take care of yourself."

"You too," said Clarice.

Ardelia put the phone down, and leaned back in her chair. In this station, there was cigarette smoke, but no fish! She was certainly going up in the world…

**To Be Continued**

**Note:** A shorter chapter, as there's another one detailing tomorrow.

_**Mr J Tulkinhorn.**_


	5. 5th January

_**Disclaimer: **FBI Director Tunberry is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story plus original characters belong to me._

_**Author's Note: **And now, the second chapter…_

**Year of Hell**

**by Josiah Tulkinhorn**

Chapter Five: 5th January

Unknown location; (believed to be in the former Soviet Bloc). Half past nine a.m.

Callie Cheetham and Naomi Smith are in a very singular line of work. They are anonymous, very expensive, and utterly professional.

Callie Cheetham and Naomi Smith are Assassins. Few are privileged to their true names - indeed, it is believed only they know the others - instead they are called 'The Twins'. They aren't, of course, they are not even related, but their quasi-symbiotic relationship is so intense that they often know what the other is thinking, and as such, they are nigh-on invincible.

It is believed that they can die. No-one is brave enough to try.

This morning, the sun is shining outside their apartment, even though it is still cold. Inside, Naomi is drinking a cup of herbal tea, while Callie is reading a novel (The Brothers Karamazov, in it's original Russian), and Evanescence is blasting through the speakers.

So loud, in fact that they almost don't here the phone ring.

"Switch it off!" hisses Callie, so as Naomi scrambles for the computer, she knocks the sound off. Before picking up the phone, Callie switches on the voice changer, and a gizmo which destroys traces. Meanwhile Naomi would start a back-trace, to verify the client.

"Yes?"

"_You are the Twins?"_ A woman's voice. Soft, American.

"Yes."

"_I have a client. I want you to kill Doctor Hannibal Lecter."_

"Why?" asked Callie.

"_That is none of your concern!"_

"Yes it is, Madam. He is extremely dangerous."

"_I do realise that."_

"Our fee would have to be doubled."

"_Two million dollars will be wired to your account. A million now, the second on completion."_

"Very well. This might take some time."

"_You have one year."_ The phone clicked dead. Callie looked over to Naomi, who shook her head.

"Somewhere in America, but you could tell that by the accent, Cal."

"Yeah," said Callie, "but we have to take the job."

"We take any job. You know that."

"But a serial-murderer. This'll be interesting."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," said Naomi, "now. Would you like a cup of tea?"

--

J. Edgar Hoover Building; Washington, D.C. Two p.m.

"Commissioner. I appreciate you waiting so later, I realise it's night in London."

"That's fine, Director Tunberry. None of us are getting much sleep these days. Do we have any progress?"

"We can confirm that Doctor Lecter moved directly from London, to Russia. Agent Ardelia Mapp is with the Russian authorities presently, and is analysing the information. Now, due to the fact Kate Warner is an American citizen, as long as Lecter is tried for her murder, we are willing to hand him over for trial and sentencing. Now, I'm not sure how our Justice Department is going to pursue things, but Lecter should still be in our custody. So wherever he would be jailed, those murdered would be added to the list. It makes little difference though. When caught, he's going to be imprisoned for the rest of his life…and perhaps the death penalty. He wouldn't get that over in England, would he?"

"Not unless he sold state secrets, which we're fairly certain he doesn't possess, or if he kills any of the royal family. He's safe from treason, but regicide? Is he mad enough to try?"

"In all honesty," said Tunberry, "I have no idea. I fervently hope not."

"Same here," said the Commissioner.

--

Somewhere in Cornwall; England. Seven p.m. (local time).

The man is eating a very fine meal of freshly caught oysters, soon to be followed by sea bass. He is reading the newspaper while he eats, and is drinking Shiraz.

It is quiet in this room he is renting, and his own culinary skills are impressive.

Later, when he is sated, he chooses to read a novel, equally quietly.

The man's name is Mordred, and he has no surname. To his neighbours, he is called Fred Barnes, but that is not his true name.

And like his namesake, behind this subtle exterior, he craves one thing. Destruction.

**To Be Continued**

**Note:** I just want to thank A. A. Aaron; Penelope S. Cartwright; BeatricePortinari (especially for re-igniting my love of Arthurian legend); and doctor katy; for all your reviews, kind words, support and encouragement. I'm finding this very hard to write (but fun), and you guys make it _much _easier. I'm also indebted to the books: The Legend of King Arthur and his Knights by James Knowles; and The Once and Future King by T. H. White. Next chapter: we're catching up with Dr Lecter.

_**Mr J Tulkinhorn.**_


End file.
